


Crutchie and Jack’s Adventure in Santa Fe

by ThunderandLightning97Fireflies



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 2017 Newsies Broadway musical, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderandLightning97Fireflies/pseuds/ThunderandLightning97Fireflies
Summary: When Crutchie and Jack leave for Santa Fe, New Mexico, they run into one of Jack’s older vaudeville nemeses who isn’t exactly thrilled to see them. When they are caught in the open desert, they are taken to a work camp and must perform labor to survive.The two need to escape, which, they soon realize, has already been decided for them. Problem is, the people they have to rely on, happen to be their enemies back home: The Delaney Brothers. Together they must put aside their differences and work together to make it back to New York.





	1. A new beginning to a darker end

        This story takes places after Jack says, “I better be hitting the road.”

    What would happen if Jack left all the newsies’ behind for his dream of Santa Fe and took Crutchie with him? This is my idea of what would have happened.

       Note: This takes place in the 2017 musical cannon with Jeremy Jordan as Jack Kelly and Andrew-Keenan Bolger as Crutchie.

Chapter 1: A new beginning to a darker end

   “Will you let me work this out?” Jack responded, a slight tinge of annoyance in his voice as he said this. The train station wasn’t how he pictured what Santa Fe would look like at all; dusty, crowded, and the heat made the clothes that they wore, stuck to their skin like fly-paper.  
Crutchie was thirsty, he hadn’t had anything to drink since a half-hour before when he had gotten up from their third-class compartment seats to get a drink of water. “I’m going to that little counter-top over there,” he pointed out the place with his finger, “see if they have anything to drink. You want anything?” 

  “Yeah, Crutchie, I’ll go with ya. A drink would do me some good in this heat.”  
What small possessions they had were packed in bags and placed around their feet. Jack bent and picked up the bags before walking over with Crutchie to the little counter-top. The little counter-top, they soon found out as they got closer, turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall joint in which to order from. A man with dark bushy hair that seemed to sprout from his forearms, walked around from the back, put on a clean white apron and said, “What’ll it be boys?” Jack didn’t like the looks of this guy, the man reminded Jack of that seedy saxophone player that Medda had caught snooping around one day before ordering him out of the building. It had taken six stage-hands, plus a night-stick to the ribs, to get him to scram.  
  “Ummm...Crutchie, I don’t think this is a good—”  
  “I’ll have a water,” Crutchie replied, as the man jotted down his order on a notepad. “Thanks, mister.”  
  “Crutchie.” Jack said, urgently when the man had disappeared around the back.  
  “What?”  
  “We should go.”  
  “Why?”  
  “Because,” Jack said, making sure to keep his voice soft so that the man wouldn’t hear that they were going to make a break for it. “I know that man. You remember about the time that Medda caught that man snooping around the theatre?” Crutchie nodded, realization beginning to edge its way onto his face. “You think that’s really—”  
  “Yeah, I do,” Jack replied, as pinpricks of sweat were starting to smear down his face. “Hear you are, boys,” the man said, holding out a silver tray on which stood two glasses that were filled with water. Before Jack could stop him, Crutchie snatched a glass from the tray and swallowed the liquid contents in one gulp. It was only then, upon closer inspection, did Jack notice how cloudy the water looked as if something had been added to them in the hopes that they wouldn’t notice. “Thanks, again,” Jack said, hoping that the man in front of them didn’t catch on to what Jack was planning to do. He hooked one of his arms inside Crutchie’s ready to make a break for it, if need be. He fished out a penny to pay for their drinks and put it on the counter.

    “It’s on the house,” the man replied, pushing the penny back. “If you need anything, boys. Just come around here and tell ‘em that old Georgie sent you. They’ll fix you up right if you mention my name.” They left the man there, Jack not caring about being polite, just wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Georgie as he could. Unbeknownst to them, Georgie had wiped down the counter with a wet rag to remove all fingerprints, went inside and called his bosses.

    “Yeah, it’s me,” he said, when the man on the other line picked up. “Only the crippled one drank the water, the other one...I think I recognize the other one, make sure to give ‘em a few licks for me when you visit them.” He put the phone on the cradle, undressed, scrubbed the dust and grime from his face and body with a saucepan that was a filled with water from a nearby lake and retired for the day on an old threadbare Mexican blanket.

  It was when they were out of the train station and into the humid, crackling dessert heat that Crutchie said he wasn’t feeling so good. “Okay, Crutchie,” Jack said, stopping to catch his breath for a few moments. “Where does it— Holy shit, you don’t look so good.” His friend’s face looked drawn and pale, even more so in the harsh light. His breathing was coming out of him in short wheezing sips of air.   

  “I think it was the water that I drank,” Crutchie wheezed and vomited right there in the sand; a thin line of yellowish vomit hung from his mouth by strands of saliva. That was when Jack first saw the Palominos kick up dust in the distance. The horses were headed straight for them. Shit, we’re fucked, Jack thought to himself as he swung an arm under Crutchie to help bolster him up as they attempted to run away. That was when the first gunshots rang out, the spitballs of lead creating small craters in the sand wherever they happened to land. Jack, for his part, didn’t even know where to go; he had to get away from whoever was shooting at them, that was a given. But in this heat he doubted if he could even take another step, never mind run. All he heard was a faint whistling noise, like something was gaining traction in the air, as a sudden throbbing pain collided with the back of his head. He gingerly touched where he had been hit, only for his fingers to come back covered in sticky, warm blood.

    “Well, that sucks,” Jack remarked, before falling face first onto the hot sandy track. With Jack nodding off down below, it was up to Crutchie to defend both of them. He actually thought that he had a good change of hauling their asses outta there, until the rest of the riders caught up with them. That was when he let loose the stream of urine that he had been holding in. The wetness already forming a stain on the front of his pants. There were six of them. Six against one. Crutchie knew that he was beat so he put his hand up in surrender, the other hand still holding onto his crutch, which, amazingly had made it through all the commotion. One of the riders swung down from his horse, walked up to Crutchie, and gave him a swift knock to his head with a metal chain. Crutchie collapsed in the hot hot sand like a pile of old laundry. The two boys were thrown over the horse’s back as the rider made his way back to the camp.


	2. Answers and Questions and Memories

Chapter 2: Questions and Answers and Memories

   The tapping sound of a raindrop hitting against a stone was what tore Jack from his drowsiness. The first sensation that he felt, when sunlight streamed through his cornea’s, were the black metal chains that encompassed his arms and wrists. He was lying on his back in the muddied dirt. Judging by the wooden slats that encircled him, he guessed that Crutchie and himself were in some type of holding cell. Crutchie, Jack thought, remembering all the fabled stories he would spin of Santa Fe while the two of them were up on the rooftop. Of how he would tell him that, once they arrived in Santa Fe, no one would care if he had a busted leg. But now that he had gotten to his long dreamt for Santa Fe? The reality had been far more different and harsher then he realized.  
    ‘Jack?” Crutchie’s voice sounded winded but nevertheless he would recognize that cheerful and optimistic voice anywhere. “Where are we?”  
   “Some type of holding cell is what I’m guessin’.”  
   “My leg hurts.”  
    The mention of Crutchie’s leg caused Jack’s head to shoot up in worry. “Really?” he asked, trying to keep their apprehension out of his voice. He crept as close to Crutchie as the chins would allow, which wasn’t much, but he would do anything to assist his friend. “How bad is it?”  
   “Like the Delaney brothers took a sledgehammer to it than poured boiling salt in the wound.”  
“Ouch. That’s gotta hurt. Hey,” Jack said, wanting to distract his friend from the pain that was lacerating his leg. “Remember when Racetrack and Henry swapped the money box from the distribution center for a prop one from Medda’s?”  
     A smile crinkled across Crutchie’s face at the mention of the April fool’s day prank. Race head started the bet of giving away five of his finest cigars to those who could give Weasel and the Delaney brothers the biggest heart attacks come dawn’s first light.

   “Something’s missing,” Henry had said, when they had gotten the fake swab into place. From his pocket, he produced a variety of marbles and pebbles. He opened the faux money slot and put them in place of cash. They hid the real money box under a few older editions of The World. “Now Weasel will definitely freak,” Race said. “This prank looks like a first prize winner for sure.” The next day at the gate was spent with more than a dozen newsies watching with keen interest as Weasel and Morris almost overturned the gate to fine the missing money. “Hey,” Spot spoke up, having made the trek across the Brooklyn bridge to watch his beloved’s prank unfold. “Where’s Oscar? Isn’t he usually hear today?”  
   “He-he’s—” Morris choked out, tears glistening in his eyes.  
   “Dead?” Romeo asked, hope in his voice at the possibility of no loner having to look at his sworn adversary. “Please tell me he’s taking a long dirt nap.”  
   “No. It’s something even worse. He got loaded up on alcohol without me. He always said that when we got drunk together, we’d get smashed, but he forgot the promise he made to me when we were kids. Apparently, some asshole switched his morning coffee with a screwdriver and now he’s laid up in bed with a massive hangover.”  
   “Alright, I’ll take it, that’s a pretty good prank,” Racetrack said, narrowing his eyes as he envisioned Oscar laid up in bed with his head pounding. He turned to Jack and addressed him. “Cowboy, did you have anything to do with this marvelous display of skill?” Jack shook his head.

      “No,” he answered, wondering where those fancy words Racetrack used had come from. “And where’s ya get those fancy words from? That ain’t like you.”  
   “Davey’s dictionary, my fine fellow.” He pulled out the treasured cigars that Les had given to him. They were thin and light-brown and color and gave of a skunk-like odor but Race knew his cigars and he sucked on each of them equally, regardless of their supposed origin. When asked about where these cigars came from, Les shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he replied, recalling how the man with the black top-coat and car had stopped him on his way from home to school one day. Davey had gone ahead to finish up some homework leaving Less to finish the walk himself. The automobile had opened besides him as if by magic with it’s chrome furnishing and black tires. A driver with a shiny red cap got out of the car, opened the back door, and helped Les inside.

    “Hello,” a man’s voice started Les from sinking into the cushioned red velvet seats too much. “I hope I didn’t strike you but I need some help and you look like a helpful boy. The man leaned forward clapping his hands on his knee caps as he studied Les, noticing the kid’s youthful appearance and sharp eyes. “What is it that you wish for me to complete, sir” Les said, remembering the rule that you had to be respectable to one’s superiors in age. The man smiled showing off his slightly faded white teeth. “You’re a smart kid,” the man said. “That’s what I said to myself I set off today. ‘I’m gonna to find me a smart kid,’ I said to myself and it looks like I was right. What’s your name, kid?”  
   “Les Jacobs, sir, I go to school around here.”  
   “That’s wonderful to hear. Tell me, do you know this area well?”  
Les nodded. “My favorite subject is science. You want to know why?”  
  “Yes, Les. I would love to know why.”  
  “Because—Davey, he’s my older brother and he’s real smart—he’s told me a-bout this thing called ‘chemical reaction’ where, if you put salt in a boiling vat of water, for example, it explodes.”  
  “Really?” the man leaned forward, causing his brown hair to be caught in the overcast sky that shone through the windows. “Les, I need you help with something.” he reached out with his finger and painted to a dilapidated wooden structure that was two blocks west of them. “Do you see that building there? Good. I need you to do one of your ‘chemical reactions’ for me when you get inside. If you do that, I’ll give you these cigars.” So saying, he pulled from his pocket five light-brown cigars. “Okay,” Les said, noticing that the car was nearing his stop. He turned back to look at the man as if to memorize his every feature. He noticed the gold singlet ring the man wore on his left ring finger. The man smiled. “My name, young Les, is Vito Corleone.”

 

   That was roughly a month ago and Les had been running errands for ‘his little mighty friend’ as he called him. Racetrack looked over at Crutchie who had the biggest reddish grin smeared across his face.

    “Kid,” Racetrack said, walking over to him. “Did you switch out Oscar’s coffee with a midnight drink?” All Crutchie could do, to keep from laughing, was nod. “Kid, I’m awful proud of you, here ya go. These are for you.” He handed Crutchie the cigars along with a match to light them with. Crutchie stuck one of the cigars in his mouth and began chewing it as he had seen Racetrack do. He struck the match against the cigar’s tip and cupped the flame with his hand so the wind wouldn’t blow out the smoke. A feeling of calm caused his shoulder to drop and his breathing to slow. For once in a long while, Crutchie felt calm, like the way he would feel after a good day of selling and head home to see Jack.

    That was when Davey ran up to the gate with an exhausted Les in tow. “Hey guys,” he began, “I heard about Race’s prank fest and—” His voice died in his throat when he saw what Crutchie was smoking. He recognized that smell from the class he took in sixth grade about the dangers of drug use. The school even had the sheriff come in and explain the different classifications of drugs and what the penalties were if the person was caught with them. He didn’t even need to waste any brain neurons to know who the likely distributor was. “Race,” he said to the cigar-wielding kid. “What exactly did you give Crutchie?”  
   “Cigars,” Race answered. “Les gave ‘em to me. Why?”  
   “Because Crutchie’s high right now.”  
   “Really how do you know?”  
   “I can see the drool that Jack’s trying to wipe up with his shirt,” he said, before stopping to watch Jack elbow his way from the back. Jack almost had a sixth sense when it came to Crutchie feeling sick or uneasy. “Yup, the drool’s making it’s way down his cheek.”  
   “RACETRACk,” Jack screamed, his face reddening with anger as he took in the scattered newsies’ around him. “What did you give Crutchie?”  
Race tried to burrow his way into Davey’s side but Less’s older brother wasn’t having it. “He’s right beside me, Jack.” he called out, rating him out in front of his friends and more importantly, Spot Colon. Jack marched up to Race. Race wanted to avoid whatever he was going to get from Jack, so he said, “Judging from what Davey told me about Crutchie being high, I must have gave him pot. I should know, I tried it once or twice myself.”  
    “The headline is up,” Crutchie said, his disoriented voice momentarily distracting the newsies from watching Jack give a verbal smack down towards Race. “‘Stock market takes 1.5% dive overnight’ like that headline’ll sell any copies.”  
    “Hang on,” Race pleaded to Jack, who looked like he was gearing up for another attack. “I think I know how to fix this.” Taking Crutchie by the hand, he walked him up to the distribution window, and said, “Throw up on these papes.”

  A cascade of vomit soon followed as Crutchie’s puke covered the entire’s day’s stack of papers in a thick greenish slime. Therefore, making them useless to sell. “Crutchie,” Spot said, the other newsies were making way for him as he came closer. “You’re the man. So, now that we got the day off, what’d ya wanna go do? We could all go to Brooklyn, my treat.” All the newsies, who were in earshot, gasped out loud at the honor that Spot had bestowed upon Crutchie. No one had even been invited to Brooklyn before, not even Racetrack. “I need breakfast,” Crutchie answered, yawning, “and than a ten-hour nap.”

    “Remember that, Crutchie?” Jack said, relishing in that particular memory. “That was of the best pranks Race had ever seen. He told me so as we made our way up to the penthouse.” Crutchie smiled his teeth an off-set of white against the grime. “And how Oscar and Morris must’ve thought that the world had stopped spinning’ when I threw up on their papes.”  
   “Yeah,” Jack said, lightly punching his friend on the arm. “You did good that day.”  
  “Where are we, anyway?”  
  “In a labor camp,” a voice they knew all too well said. The boys’ turned to Oscar and Morris Delaney step through the the wooden door, their eye little more than flints of shined stone. “Thanks a lot for the information on who had the idea for the prank,” Morris said.“Too bad, you’re just a few months late. My backside didn’t start healing until now.” Oscar bent down to look at Crutchie, all the while murmuring, “George’s goons worked over you pretty good.”

   He handed the two of them a tin covered plate.

    “Open it,” he said. “I had to sneak it past six guards just so the food could make it here.” Jack tore off the lid to reveal a fork, a knife, a baked potato and a packet of butter. He began cutting into the potato with the knife and spreading the butter inside. With his knife, he cut the food in half: one for him and one for Crutchie. They began eating in silence. Each one gouging into their food with greed and hunger. When Jack had wiped the crumbs from their mouths, he looked up at Oscar and said the words he thought would never come out of his mouth, “Thank You.”  
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar said. “Now I know you have some questions that desperately need answering. Question one: Where am I? You’re at a labor camp far off in the New Mexican desert where no sheriff has ever bothered to visit. Question Two: Who runs this place. That would be George, who I assume from Crutchie’s markings, you’ve already met. He’s really chummy with the sheriff. Gives him a thousand bucks to stay off the lot. Hence why he never visits.” He produced a long metal key from the folds of his pants and unlocked their chains. “Get up,” he told them. “I’ll show you to the sleeping quarters but that’s it.” Making their way outside, Crutchie asked, “Why you helping us, Oscar?”  
    “Because,” Oscar replied, making their way past the sparse brown coated building that made up the camp. Words like, “Dinning hall,” “Store Room,” and “Nurses Station” were some of the names that Crutchie spied as he moved closer to Jack. He still didn’t trust the Delaney’s, no matter what front they were putting up. “Kelly boy and you,” Oscar continued, “are gonna help us make a break for it. And you’re coming with us. Sleep tight boys, the horn sounds at five a.m.”


	3. Barracks and Status

      Jack knew that Crutchie was going to have a hard time keeping up, even before the horn went off. It began last night with the two of them having to use bunk beds in the “barracks.” The “barracks” was just a fancy word for a barn that was somewhat clean, except for the glow-in-the-dark fungus and dripping liquids that appeared every now and then. Being the newcomers, Jack and Crutchie got the bunk bed that was nearest to the door. “Bunk beds are a status symbol, here. The farther from the door you are, the higher status you have in the camp.” Morris had explained, when Jack asked if they couldn’t have anything that was nearer to the back. “Something the kids do to the newcomers. Reminds them of their status. Oscar and I had sneak in a bottle of Rose wine before the top dog even considered letting us move.” Jack’s heart sank when he heard the words ‘top dog.’ Great, Jack though to himself. Someone else I’ll have to contend with to survive.  
    “Alright, Crutchie,” Jack said, studying the two wooden flats that had been glued on top of one another to resemble a bed. A thin blanket was thrown on top to provide warmth. “You take the bottom bunk and I’ll take the top one.”  
   “I know, Jack,” Crutchie said, his eyes assessing the wood and how it would feel on his leg. “I’m just worried about the wood, that’s all.” He made his way forward with Jack shoving the kids who got too close to the “kid’s gimp,” as Crutchie had become known. “Jack, I—” Crutchie began to sit down on the wood, just as his leg caved, he collapsed to the floor. “I don’t want—” Jack swooped in to help his friend, but the other kids got to him first. One of them— Jack couldn’t see who it was with the influx of grubby hands— had Crutchie's crutch and was waving it in front of him. Mocking him as the door banged open. George stepped in with two black toed guards near his flank. Each one of the uniforms was pressed to a military crisp.

   “Hello, Jack” George said, setting his eyes on the pair and making a beeline for them. The rest of the kids scattered in all different directions, hastily making their way to their beds. “Remember me? I’m sure ya do with how you called Miss Medda over and I got the licking of my life. And all for what? Peeking in at the showgirl’s while they were changing their undies.” He struck at Jack with a gloved hand, swift and precise. When he pulled back, the split lip was visible along with the blood. “Have anything to say, boy?”  
    “No, sir.”  
    “Good.” Then raising his voice, he addressed those who pushed against one another to see what the hub-bud was about, said, “All of you will be divided into work camps at five. Anyone who’s late gets the mining quarry. I suggest you all be at the appointed time to join the scrabble for the more softer jobs. Now, those don’t last long.”  
George left with his entourage without saying a word. Below him, Jack heard Crutchie sigh with relief. “Glad, that wasn’t us,” Crutchie said. “Huh, Jackie boy?” His eyes flickering over to his crutch which lay discarded a few inches away. Jack was already walking towards it. Pulling Crutchie up by his hand, Jack placed the crutch under his arm and laid him down on the wooden bed. He was careful with placing Crutchie's left leg down, afraid that if he did anything wrong, his friend would be clutching his leg in pain for half of the night. “Thanks for the help Jack,” Crutchie said, “but I don’t need you mothering me.” Jack acted as if he hadn’t heard him.

    “Tomorrow,’ he said, as if he were making a promise to himself rather than Crutchie, “I’m getting you one of the softer jobs.” Jack climbed up on the bunk that was below Crutchie’s and bunched up the blanket as a pillow, fell asleep. He was more than used to sleeping on the streets of New York, a wooden bunk bed was no different.


End file.
